In the madness of the moment,
in the quest for the unknown,
when a drunken dunderhead forms a wondrous idea,
when the rich man throws money in the street,
when a hand extends to someone falling,
or when a child teaches an adult,
such as how to look with fresh eyes upon
an early morning sky?

At such times you need not wonder,
you need not climb on the roof to shout,
or hammer every individual over the head,
insistent that what you’ve learned is true,
but be thankful for your brief clarity,
for that slice of reality in which the skies fell apart,
fell down, split open so that you, the small composite
that you are, could say I see, yes, I see.

From Factory Rejects: Two for a Nickel (Wolfsong Publications, 2015).
Used with the author’s permission.

Gary Busha is a Wisconsin native who likes that state’s changing seasons. His poetry—lean and plain-spoken, with themes of nature and lament—is strongly influenced by his good fortune in having grown up on Lake Winnebago. A poetry chapbook publisher for many years, Gary has three chapbooks of his own, which he claims are the better for having studied such a wide range of poetic styles over the years. Recently he’s finished 12 pocket-sized mini-series of haiku and published poems of his work. Querygbusha@wi.rr.comfor a free sample.